Reignite Forever
by intricate-bindings
Summary: England's fought many battles, but none have had such horrendous results. Can England find the one light he needs to pull through?


**Title:** Reignite (Forever)

**Fandom:** Hetalia

**Pairing, Character(s):** America/England, Austria

**Rating:** R, for cussing and heavy making out

**Genre:** Romance/Angst/Drama

**Spoilers:** None

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Hetalia or any of its characters. This piece is used for entertainment only and no profit is being made.

**Summary:** England's fought many battles, but none have had such horrendous results. Can England find the one light he needs to pull through?

All around me, fires burn.

I see more and more of my troops falling every minute. Germany is pounding us into rubble. (Italy retreated to the west hours ago.)

Leaping over a fallen tree, I rush to a wounded solider. I tear off a piece of my uniform and grab a nearby piece of wood to fashion a makeshift splint for his arm.

"C'mon, mate," I grunt, tying it tightly and shoving his gun back into his hands. "You're not done just yet."

"Thanks, England," the man pants, recovering and dashing of to help his fellows.

I, in return, spin around to find a German pointing a rifle at me. With little time to spare, I yank a pistol from the ground and plug him in the head, but not before he fires and grazes my shoulder. Grimacing at the pain, I run to the blockade where America is reloading.

"Any luck?" I ask, squatting and checking my weapons.

"None," he says grimly, "those bastards are coming from every side. I'm definitely gonna feel the blow of this battle."

"Why, America," I say, "is that doubt I hear?"

I expect a smile from the ever-jolly country, but he turns to look at me with a determined look. "I never doubt," he says, fire burning in his eyes. "Germany's going down."

"That's what I like to hear," I reply, grinning.

"England?" He asks as I turn to leave.

"Yes?"

"Try not to die," America says, looking straight at me. "Cause that would really, really suck."

"No promises," I say, running into the gunfire once again.

Two hours later, we're still fighting, but _now_ we've got the upper hand. My men and America's have sprung back and given everything they have (which is pretty damn good, if you ask me). The Germans are shouting to retreat, and soldiers try to take down as many of the running cowards as they can. One lucky shot with a rocket launcher hidden in the back of our trucks could take out as many as 50, but I'll have to get much closer.

"America!" I yell, looking for him amongst my men.

"Here!" He says, jogging towards me. His smile has been restored as he watches the Germans flee. "Got em now, don't we?"

"America, I need you to help me with something," I say urgently, heading towards a truck and yanking the heavy gun from it.

"What is it?" He inquires, too excited to feel danger.

"If I get a bit closer, I can take out an entire fleet, but I need you to get my back for me," I say.

"Cool, dude!" He is literally bouncing where he stands.

"Engage the safety, for God's sake!" I shout as a shot blasts into the air, the shell smacking me in the forehead.

"Oops, sorry," he says. "Yeah, I'll help you. Let's do it."

We run toward the remaining Germans, America whooping battle cries.

I take aim, slowly aligning the scope in the best place to blow these bastards into the stratosphere.

"England!" I hear America cry, and turn in time to see him throw himself in front of me, sparks flying from his gun. I hear a dull thud, and cry out, rushing towards him.

I don't get far before pain like none I've ever felt rips through my stomach. Before I gasp and fall to the ground, the edges of my vision getting steadily redder, I'm able to fire, the explosion rocking the earth.

I hear America curse, and turn my head weakly to see him running towards me. The impact has knocked me back at least 5 meters.

"Oh, God," he gasps, tearing open my uniform, a hole in his shoulder wetting his hands with crimson liquid. I look down and see blood covering my stomach. _Funny,_ I think, as my mind quivers, _one little bullet produces so much blood._

"You're bleeding," I murmur.

"Arthur!" He yells. A jolt goes through me at the use of my real name. "Stay with me."

"Bloody tosspot," I murmur, weakly reaching a hand towards him. He grabs it, the fire in his eyes fueled by God knows what (probably some sort of food). "Saved me, but now you can only think of yourself. Only-" I cough, and blood spatters from my mouth to my chest.

"Hold on, Arthur," he says. "Don't go to sleep."

"Someone get fucking help!" Someone screams in the background. "He's dying!"

_Yes, I'm drying, you fools,_ I think. _I think we've established that._

"Arthur," America says. I turn towards him again. His face is much too close to mine, and all I can see are those eyes. Bright blue, almost icy, melting with the strength of his gaze. "Stay strong. Please."

"America, believe me, I'm trying," I mutter.

"Call me Alfred," he says, his eyes glimmering. "Stay awake."

"Alfred?" I ask, holding his hands with the fight that hasn't yet been extinguished by pain.

"What?" He says, the tears finally falling and mixing with my blood as they drip on my chest.

"Help me," I say, and can't hold on any longer.

"ARTHUR!"

The world goes black.

My eyes open to bright white light.

_Am I in heaven? _I think. _Didn't expect _that _to happen._

"Thank God!" I hear a voice say, and America's face fills my vision.

_Nope, I'm in hell._

"We thought we'd lost you," he said. "But you're here." I look around and see "here" is a military hospital room.

"No shit," I groan, the wrecking-ball pounding of a blazing headache reverberating through my skull. "What happened?"

"You were shot," he says quietly. "I saved you from the first one." I notice his shoulder has bandages, but they're soaked in blood.

"My God," I say. "Alfred..."

"It's nothing," he mutters, but his skin (why is he shirtless in my room?) gleams with sweat and his breath is shallow.

"You need medical attention," I insist.

"You come first," he shoots back.

_What?_

"Why do I come first?" I ask softly.

There's an awkward pause as he stares at the floor.

Then he whispers, "I couldn't let anything happen to you. Not when-" Alfred cuts off, gripping his own hands tightly.

"Alfred," I say. "Why?"

He looks up at me, blue eyes shimmering.

"I love you, Arthur," he says, looking in my eyes. "And I'm so sorry I couldn't do anything to protect you."

With the tiny bit of strength I have left, I lean over the bed rails (setting off a small beeping from a machine by the bed) and kiss him.

He's soft, sweet, and I can taste his tears in my mouth.

As we break, he whispers, "How long?"

"Always," I say, reaching up towards his face, "and forever."

_"He's been asleep for a long time, Austria. Is that supposed to happen?"_

_"He's fine. I'm surprised England walked away with this little injury. The blast should have ruptured his insides. Tough old soldier."_

_"What exactly happened to him?"_

_"The bullet entered his back, nearly grazing his spine. We can only vaguely identify what happened next, but we know the large intestine was to heavily damaged to continue functioning. We had it removed."_

_"But...how's he gonna eat?"_

_"Oh, he'll do just fine. We plan to attach the end of the small intestine to the rectum, in non-medical terms. There will certainly be other adjustments he will have to make, but for now we'll worry about the upcoming procedure. Don't worry. With friends, family, and a boyfriend by his side? He'll make it through just fine."_

_"Boyfriend?"_

_"Oh, I assumed that was you, America. Was I mistaken?"_

_"No, Austria. It's just...he's been through so much. What if this is it?"_

_"With his vitals looking good, I see no reason to worry. I'll leave you two for now, but come to me after so we can see to that shoulder."_

_"Oh, Arthur. I'll always be here. Hold on, for you, for me...for us."_

**Christmas at America's Mansion**

"No," I says, crossing my arms indignantly.

America groans. "Artie, you're in my house. Wear it."

I wince. "Please don't call me that. And again, no."

America groans again, grabbing a pillow and stuffing it into his face. "Why won't England just wear the goddamn hat?" He howls, voice muffled by the soft feathers.

"Because it makes us look as though we _want_ to be fat old men who sit around all year and do nothing but invade people's orderly homes," I sniff. "Besides, that pom-pom is ridiculous."

"It would look so great on you!" He insists, coming towards me with the offending garment in hand. One is already on his head, though the pom-pom carefully stitched on also has a bell.

I protest, but only weakly when I realize that he's climbed on top of me, straddling my hips. He's still trying to cram it on my head, but the sight of his red lips glistening as he licks them with anticipation is just to much. I lean upwards and kiss him, momentarily silencing the need for awful Christmas hat designs. Quickly, though, even though I started it, I remember my baby's the dominant type.

He growls under his breath, and shifts until _I'm _straddling _him_. Grabbing my hair, he pulls me closer until I'm sure there is no air or space between us. His tongue invades my mouth, seeking for my own. I answer him, gliding my tongue slowly past his and pausing at the entrance of his lips. He nearly swallows me allowing access. Done with the task of crushing our mouths together, his hands slide down my back to my arse. I groan into his mouth, no easy task when our tongues are entangled.

He pulls away and looks at me with a expression of pride and adoration on his face. "I love you, Arthur," he says.

"And I the same," I respond. "Also, Alfred?"

"What?" He asks, hands beginning to creep towards my arse again.

"If you do well, I'll wear that stupid hat."

His eyes gleam as they bore into mine. "Deal."

Our fire is reignited.


End file.
